


Invest

by caedere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caedere/pseuds/caedere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Distraught. It's the only way to explain it.<br/>Somehow, they both are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invest

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Invest' by Big Scary. Both the inspiration for a portion of this fic and one of my absolute favourite songs at the moment.
> 
> Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock Holmes. No profit is being made here.
> 
> Unbetaed - sorry for any errors!

They finish a case. John enters their flat and hangs up his jacket. Makes dinner. Sits. Eats. Stands. Returns to the kitchen. Makes tea. Always does. Perches on his chair with the mug in hand. Takes in the warmth. Watches the news. Goes to bed at 9 and doesn't leave his room until 6 the following morning. Goes to work. Bickers with Sherlock when they're between cases. Blogs. Everything's normal.

•••

John gets a phone call. Leaves the flat for a bit. Comes back reeking of alcohol. Not just cheap beer. Stronger. Higher quantities. Probably the fault of a recent girlfriend.  
He still completes his daily tea-telly-bed ritual. Wakes up in the morning. Hangover. Goes to work anyway.  
"Gotta help pay the rent," he says to nobody in particular.

•••

John's picked up more work hours. He's at the flat less. Can't be a new girlfriend. Takes his coat and no overnight bag. Toothbrush stays behind. Takes a mug of tea to the practice. More work's the only explanation.  
Sherlock asks how he is.  
"Wouldn't expect the sociopath to understand." He doesn't elaborate.  
Sherlock doesn't ask him to.

•••

John's not been sleeping. Sherlock notices.  
"Are you sleeping well, John?" He questions anyway.  
"We're out of jam," John avoids answering. He takes his burnt toast over to his chair and flicks on the telly. There's nothing on. He stares at the ads with a vacancy in his eyes.  
Sherlock doesn't push the matter.

•••

There's a soft clanging from the kitchen that causes Sherlock to wake up. They've finished another case. John still isn't sleeping. There are dark circles forming under his eyes. Sherlock wonders how long it's been since he's had a full night's rest.  
"John?"  
"'M in the kitchen."  
"I know. Why?"  
"Tea. We're still out of jam."  
"It's 3 in the morning."  
"Oh."  
Lights flicker out. John brushes past Sherlock on his way upstairs.

•••

He's more of a shell than a man. Spineless. Moves with the jerky movements of a robot. Doesn't speak unless he really needs to. Sleeps less. Takes long showers. Uses up all of the hot water. Sherlock's told him off for it (hypocritical). He only got a meagre 'sorry' in response. Keeps happening. Keeps getting worse.  
John's not just sick. John's missing.

•••

The worry starts. Sherlock's not sure what to make of it. He's not used to caring. Not like this.  
He tries talking to John about it. More noncommittal words. Regulated. Drafted. It's like he's reading from a script.  
"John."  
"Yeah?"  
"You are not well."  
"I'm fine."  
"You aren't. What's the matter?"  
"Nothing. I'm fine. Leave it be."  
"You're not sleeping."  
"I am."  
"Your eyes are bloodshot. Dark rings under your eyes. Heavy eyelids. Anyone'd notice."  
"I'm fine."  
No. You're not.  
"Just... don't worry. I have to get to work."  
Don't go. I can't let you go.  
Not in this state.  
"I'll be home late today. Don't wait up. There's leftover curry in the fridge."  
Let me help you.  
John.  
Let me in.

•••

He gets a call from the hospital.  
"You're first on his emergency contacts list," he hears. Wonders why. Stops. Realises. "Severe blood loss. Trauma to the head. Broken ribs. Shoulder was dislocated."  
He doesn't register anything else. He's out of the flat before he has his second arm through his coat.

•••

"John. John Watson. I have to see him." He pauses. Adds on for good measure, "Please."  
"Who are you?"  
"Sherlock Holmes. Is he okay?"  
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. He's in 149. Unconscious, but breathing."  
"Oh." He remembers something John once said. Not sure why. It helps. "Thank you."

•••

He's not really John. Less so than he's been the past few weeks. Weak. Pale. Hooked up to machines. Steady beeping. He thinks that's good. Can't remember.  
"He was in a serious car accident." Doctor. Mid-forties. Greyed hair. Broken his nose once. No. Twice. Twice? Once. Divorced. Pressed scrubs. Can't. Can't think. Nothing. No data. No. Wrong. Can't be. Has to be something.  
"Yes." Pauses. That's all he can do. His mind's distraught. Wonders when that happened. Maybe when John came home smelling of salt and whiskey. "He'll be okay?"  
"We hope."  
Breaks. "Please make sure he's okay."  
Speculative glance. "We're trying. We can't--can't guarantee anything. He's steady. Can't ask for much more at this point. I'll do my best for him, Mr. Holmes."  
Silence. Tension. Not awkward. Just cold. Blank. John. John. John. "Thank you."

•••

Three weeks. He doesn't wake up.  
Sherlock is quite certain he's lost it.  
"John. Good morning." He purses his lips. "Not so good. Still waiting."  
No response.  
"Want you to wake up soon. It's been too long. Need my blogger."  
The same silence.  
"The flat's too empty. Mrs. Hudson misses you. Can't--can't think. Not now. John. Please wake up."  
Nothing. Again.  
He's lost it. It's decided. The tears making their stealthy way down his face agree. Sherlock Holmes does not cry.  
Not until he's lost something--someone--he needs.

•••

Another five days. Too long. Much too long. Even a day without John is too long.  
But it doesn't last too much longer.  
He wakes up. The vice on his mind shatters. He thinks. It's like breathing. He's missed it.  
There's a marvel accompanying John's waking. Doesn't ask what it is that he feels. He revels in it. Not at first. Tried to lock it away. Failed. Let it be.  
"Hey, Sh'lock. Where'm I?"  
"Hospital. You were... They hit you, John. In their car. Hit a telegraph pole. You were between the two. Shoulder was only dislocated. Impact to the ribs. Couple of them broke. Hit your head hard on the bonnet. Wounded. There was a lot of blood." He stops. Can't flood him with information. John is not his mind palace. "I am... glad. That you're awake. That you're okay. You are okay? You've been out a while."  
John manages a smile. What should be a smile. It looks difficult. More like a grimace. "Glad t'be back. I'm fine. Y'look buggered. Go back to th'flat. Get some rest. I'll be okay."  
"No." He's taken aback by his own definitive manner. "Can't leave you again. Look what happened last time."  
The smile is stronger this time around. "Ask them t'set up a cot for you."  
"I don't need it. I'll be fine."  
"Sher--"  
"Quiet. Don't strain yourself."  
Eye roll. Sherlock's missed that eye roll.  
"Are you hungry, John?"  
"Bit. Should stick to liquids first. D'you think they've got any tea? Could use some about now."  
"I'll ask. John?"  
"Mm?"  
"Thanks."  
"For what?"  
Sherlock's already left the room in search of tea.  
The nurse tiptoes in. Notices he's up. "Glad you're back with us, Mr. Watson."

•••

It's only another week before they release John. He's got a strict schedule. Certain meal times. Bed by no later than 9 o'clock. Absolutely no work whatsoever.  
Sherlock spends more time than he would care to admit with John after the incident.  
It's simple towards the beginning. Doesn't want to overwhelm.  
"Can I get you another blanket?"  
"Would you like more tea?"  
"Are you alright to stand up?"  
He does it for John. Anyone else would have to deal on their own. He supposes so.  
He's not sure what he's working towards. Maybe nothing.

•••

John tells him about the weeks leading up to the crash. He sits in his chair. Sherlock sits on the ground beside him. The news blares monotonously under their conversation.  
"Lost Harry," he mumbles. "Liver failure. She'd been in hospital for a bit. Too much alcohol. Lifestyle like hers asked for it."  
Suspects it's more than that. Doesn't matter. John's confided in him. That's enough.  
Sherlock still questions John's coping mechanisms on what he presumes was the first night. Doesn't comment on it.  
"You miss her." It's not a question.  
"Despite everything." John smiles weakly. "I didn't take it too well."  
"I noticed."

•••

The recovery goes well.  
John kisses Sherlock. In thanks. Probably. It's tentative and close-mouthed and they don't speak about it again.

•••

He seems well enough. Until John complains of pains around his stomach. Sits down. Whimpers.  
Immediately Sherlock is kneeled next to his chair.  
"It's not--nothing major. Might be a bug. Immune system's still busy fixing everything else. Susceptible to all kinds of sick in this state."  
Sherlock nods. It's hesitant.  
At least John's livelier. Has a bit of input on the small cases Sherlock's been taking up. He's better than before the accident. Sherlock cannot complain. He hopes it's just a flu. Something that'll pass quickly.  
"Mind grabbing me some painkillers? Doesn't feel the best."  
"Of course."

•••

John places a kiss to Sherlock's knuckles. It's a soft press of cracked lips. Tickles a bit. They still don't talk about it. It happened. That's all.

•••

It doesn't lessen. The pains are nearly always there. Persistent. Spread to his chest. It was a slip up. He hadn't meant to inform Sherlock. Thought it might go away in time. He's obviously holding back his complaints.  
"John. We're... We're going to have to take you back in. To the hospital. I want this looked at." He's not ashamed of his near-inarticulate speech. He's worried.  
John nods. Sweat beads down his forehead. Not good. Very not good.

•••

Sherlock initiates it this time. Doesn't mind if it's a bug. He'll work through it.  
Takes John's face between his hands.  
They stand. Breathe each other's air. Warm. Rest their foreheads together. Sherlock has to crouch some to reach.  
Brushes over John's mouth with his own.  
It's nice.  
Too nice.  
Wonders if it's like this for everyone.  
Maybe not.

•••

They disengage from each other's arms. Reluctant. Know what's happening next.  
A nurse leads John away.

•••

Sherlock's mind goes into lockdown again.

•••

It's only several hours. Feels like centuries.  
Sherlock stands like a marble statue in the corner while he waits.  
Can't deduce people's intentions. Life story. Those were things he did with John. When he was well. John would "deduce" and Sherlock took great (unmentioned) pleasure in correcting him. Grinned when John got something right. Would say something about John "learning." Made John laugh. He liked that laugh.  
Maybe it was his favourite.

•••

Commotion.  
Then nothing.

•••

Keeps getting himself worked up. It's silly. He's worried. Doesn't admit it. Still is.

•••

He feels more human than he's felt in years.  
That scares him.

•••

John.

•••

Of course. How could he be such an idiot? The pains...  
Wait.  
No.  
No, no.  
It can't--  
No.  
He won't have it.  
He refuses.  
No.  
Nurse.  
No.  
That look.  
He's seen that look before.  
The vet.  
When Redbeard--  
When he--  
"Mr. Holmes."  
He wasn't there again.  
He wasn't there for John again and he's failed and he's not done well enough and he's finally caught up and--  
No.  
"Mr.-- Excuse me. You are Mr. Holmes?"  
No, no, no.  
Go away.  
Don't.  
Don't say it.  
The nurse's eyes say everything.  
It's pitying.  
"John's--"  
"Don't."  
"I'm sorry."  
Numb. He's numb. Everything is bleak and he's numb.  
"He'd developed serious blood clots. They were imperceptible. We did all we could." Nurse looks him up and down. Notices the sleeplessness showing on his features. Sighs.  
"It wasn't enough."  
His voice is halfway between a scream and a sob.  
Control.  
Control.  
Control.  
Control.  
Control--  
No.  
John.  
He's--  
No.  
He can't be.  
They're lying.  
John is fine.  
He will smile and greet Sherlock when he walks into the room.  
He'll be attached to the beeping machines.  
He'll still smile.  
Worry about Sherlock.  
Always did, didn't he?  
Put everyone else's needs before his own.  
Idiot.  
He'll mutter about tea.  
He'll be fine.  
Released in a week.  
It was a stomach bug, not--  
Nothing else.  
He's okay.  
"Sorry."  
Sherlock drops his head to his hands.  
Glares at the spotless floor through his fingers.  
Tears, again.  
Because he's really lost all he needs now.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a relatively experimental piece.  
> I understand it is written in a way that can be somewhat hard to comprehend; sharp, jerky sentences littered about small thoughts and little speech.  
> This, I have done on purpose. It was to test writing in a way that I had often speculated Sherlock's mind to work. While he is one to go into great length with his deductive reasoning, I feel his inner 'voice' would be quite concise and get straight to the point with narration.
> 
> Sorry this sounds like a bit of an essay. Thought I'd get that cleared up :)


End file.
